The warm breeze lifted Andrea’s spirits as she sped across the empty Wyoming desert. Glancing down at the small green duffle bag at her side, she considered its contents for a moment before returning her attention to the seemingly endless road drawing her west. After nearly fourteen hours in the white Chrysler Sebring, Andrea’s mind had been lulled into the sort of autopilot mode that often leads to drowsiness and accidents.
She tried to fight her tiredness by scanning the landscape, looking for any sign that she was making progress toward her destination. In this barren desert, the only indication of forward movement was the parade of mile markers that passed with hypnotic regularity. At one point, Andrea thought she saw a small animal disappear into the sagebrush. Later she passed an abandoned car with red numbers painted on the window noting when the vehicle was to be towed, but most of the time there was nothing to see or to take her mind off of the events of the previous few days. It took a conscious effort to separate her thoughts from the web of anger, confusion, and sadness that had motivated her current course of action. But with a glance back at the duffle bag, her mind was clear again.
As the afternoon wore on, her growing hunger pulled Andrea’s attention away from her inner thoughts, and she began watching for a place to eat. Her hopes rose at the sight of a road sign promising that it was only twelve miles to the town of
Andrea still felt twinges of anger at her father, although she wasn’t sure exactly why. Perhaps after being angry with him for so many years, she had just grown accustomed to the feeling. Or maybe this was new anger—anger at him for jolting her from her comfortably routine life, anger at him for suddenly changing her view of reality, anger at him for ever having lived, anger at him for dying. Regardless of its source, she felt guilty for feeling any anger at all. She was relieved when the Caesar salad arrived, taking her attention away from this uncomfortable train of thought.
After a brief but much needed dinner, Andrea returned to Highway 80, westbound. She watched
The sun was falling behind the western horizon as Andrea pulled into the parking lot at
The next morning, rested and refreshed, Andrea was eager to continue her journey. Just past Little America, she left the interstate, taking Highway 30 northwest toward
The late August sky was clear and Andrea kept the windows down even as she transitioned to the unpaved road. Her long dark hair blowing freely in the breeze, she again allowed herself to think through the events of the previous few days.
The phone call from
She could still hear her response to the nurse, “How did this happen?”
“Alzheimer’s affects one out of every ten Americans aged 65 and older. Currently there is no known cause for it…” the nurse spoke with genuine compassion.
Andrea tried again. “No, I mean how did he get out of prison? Why wasn’t I told?” She was confused and wondered if this was a joke.
“I’m sorry ma’am. I thought you were asking about the disease. I really can’t help you otherwise. You’ll have to talk to his attorney or someone else. I just need to know if you are planning to be here.”
It didn’t take her long to make a decision, and that afternoon she packed a suitcase and handbag and left for
As it turned out, Andrea’s father had lived through that night, and entering a small room on the first floor of the rest home, she saw him lying asleep on the bed, a cannula forcing oxygen into his nostrils, a heart monitor beeping in tandem with his pulse, and tape securing an IV tube to his arm. She sat by his bed and looked dispassionately at the man she had learned to loathe. It was nearly five o’clock in the morning and Andrea had driven through the night to be at her dying father’s side, but she wasn’t sure why. She leaned back into the soft padded chair and drifted to sleep.
A few hours later, she awoke to the sound of the morning nurse checking and recording her father’s vital signs. He lay motionless in the bed, his eyes half open. She wondered if he could see her. Absorbing the daylight as it streamed through the window into her own bloodshot eyes, the reality of the situation seemed to distill in Andrea’s mind. Seeing her father lying there, incapacitated, produced a sense that justice had finally been served. Certainly, this was God’s punishment.
Andrea coolly asked the nurse about her father’s prognosis. Knowing that the patient’s condition precluded his understanding anything that was said, the nurse told Andrea everything she knew about David Thornton. He had been diagnosed with the disease three years earlier. He had spent most of the past two years in the rest home. He had been in critical condition since Monday. His prospects weren’t good. He would probably live another day, two at the most. He was pain-free, and would be kept so.
The nurse’s last comment gave Andrea unexpected comfort. She leaned back in her chair and stared into her father’s blank eyes; the nurse finished her work and left the room. After she was alone with her father, she leaned forward and spoke to him.
“Hi Daddy,” she said quietly. “It’s me, Andrea.” She looked for any reaction to her words. “I guess you can’t tell what I’m saying, so I might as well be honest with you—I don’t know what I’m doing here. Maybe I just wanted to make sure it really was you.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “Maybe I hoped you would say you were sorry,” she paused, “but I guess that’s not possible now.” She looked at him more closely and wondered if he could see her. She wondered if he remembered her.
“Maybe I just…” With these words, she began to choke up and tried to hold back an upwelling of emotion. Looking past his thin and worn face, she could see the remnant of his earlier strong and handsome features. For a moment, she thought she saw the loving father from her childhood. Decades old memories, long since hidden away, flooded her mind. Tears began to form in her eyes in spite of her efforts to keep them back, “Oh, Daddy!” Tears fell down her face as her voice rose in volume and pitch. “Why, Daddy? I don’t understand!” It was a relief giving release to emotions she had imprisoned since she was a child..
At last, Andrea reached out and took her father’s hand, holding it gently. “Why?” she whispered hoarsely. But there was no response, no reaction of any kind. Closing her eyes, she rested her head on the edge of the bed.
Lost in the memory of her childhood, Andrea imagined that she was nine years old again and was chasing him around their living room in
He immediately swept her up into his arms and kissed her cheek. “Tag! You’re it!” he laughed.
“Panthers don’t kiss!” she protested. “That’s not fair!”
He set her gently back on her feet and said, “OK, I’ll give you a one-second head start.” She ran off before he could count to one.
This was one of Andrea’s last memories of life at home with her father—a clear and beautiful memory, like the sunlight that now filled the room. But the memories that followed were a dim blur of noise and confusion, of police and courtrooms. These were followed by other clear memories that, while they were not bad, were not particularly beautiful. Andrea remembered walking into her cousins’ home for the first time, the home where she would live until she was old enough to start her own life and wipe away all such memories. Memories, for her, were things to escape.
Aunt Jenny had truly been an angel in Andrea’s life, raising her in a vibrant home and protecting her from too much information about the past. Aunt Jenny and Uncle Rick believed that a busy child was a well-behaved child, and ensured that every moment of Andrea’s life was filled with organized activities. She was welcomed by her three younger cousins into this whirlwind of a family and spent the next several years so entirely occupied with music, sports, and school that there was no time to dwell on the past. But occasionally she lay in her bed at night and let herself wonder about her parents and questioned what had happened. Generally, though, life was good and these were fleeting thoughts.
By age seventeen, Andrea had developed a legitimate desire to learn more about the events surrounding her move to Aunt Jenny’s house. Aunt Jenny and Uncle Rick had not been forthcoming. Whenever the subject came up, they tried to dissuade her from pursuing what they perceived as useless information. Ultimately, out of respect for her substitute parents, Andrea dropped the subject.
It wasn’t until she began studying journalism at
Some of the facts had never been completely clear, even in the courtroom, but this much was well known. Andrea’s mother and father had been going through a difficult time in their marriage. More than once, neighbors on both sides of their house had heard them arguing. In an effort to improve their relationship, the couple had decided to go on a cross-country skiing trip.
Andrea remembered how much both of her parents loved skiing and she could easily picture them wearing their parkas and long slender cross-country skis. A family friend had told them about a new trail that just opened east of
Courtroom documents indicated that the couple had not resolved their disagreements, and customers in the Bone Store, Bone’s only building, reported hearing them arguing.
The Bone Store sat alone on an unpaved road in the
The exact meaning of the words soon became irrelevant, when several minutes later, David, soaked in blood and carrying a rifle, burst back into the Bone Store shouting for someone to get him a telephone.
With these agonizing thoughts in her mind, Andrea continued along State Highway 30 past the Blackfoot Reservoir. She would soon slow down at the intersection with
Seeing the small “
During the investigation that followed, the gun’s owner was not identified. But David’s bloody fingerprints on the gun plus sworn testimony of witnesses to the couple’s final quarrel had been sufficient to convict David Thornton of second-degree murder, earning him life in prison.
The attorney had told Andrea that her father was in the Federal Correctional Institution in
David Thornton was now dead. He had passed away two days earlier at 11:37 A.M. at the Halsted Terrace Nursing Center of Chicago, Illinois, only a few hours after Andrea had sat down at his side. She hadn’t said much during her time with him and he hadn’t said anything. She had been holding his hand, trying to make sense out of her life, when he suddenly tightened his grip. Looking into his eyes, she’d thought for an instant that he recognized her. Maybe he squeezed her hand to tell her he was sorry. Maybe this was his deathbed repentance. But then, maybe it was just a reflexive tightening of his muscles as his spirit left his body.
Andrea called for the nurse who came into the room and took David’s pulse.
The nurse turned to Andrea., “I’m sorry, he’s gone.”
Andrea was done shedding tears. She thanked the nurse who made several notes on her clipboard, noting the time of death, and then left the room again. When she returned, the nurse was accompanied by two orderlies who began removing tubes and monitoring wires from the body. An administrator from the nursing home entered the room and asked Andrea to accompany him to his office to complete some paperwork. Walking out of the room where her father had just died, she didn’t look back or say goodbye or shed any new tears.
The paperwork was not particularly complicated, and Andrea dutifully fulfilled the role of only surviving family member in completing the needed documents. As she moved through the papers, she stopped at a light yellow form entitled “Disposition of the Body.” The text was sparse, giving only three options from which she was expected to make a selection. The choices were:
___Release to funeral home (provide name and address)
___Charity burial
___Charity cremation
Andrea hadn’t given any thought to what would happen to her father after death, at least not what would happen to his physical remains. If her desire was to finally remove him completely from her life, then charity cremation seemed to be the most appropriate choice. She would check this box, sign her name, and walk away from the nursing home and her father forever—it was an easy decision. She signed the remaining forms and handed them to the nursing home administrator, who thanked her. He asked her to remain in the office for a moment, and left, closing the door behind him. When the door opened again, a nursing home chaplain stood in the doorway.
“May I come in?” he asked kindly.
Andrea, although appreciating his intentions, didn’t think she required his services. “I’m sorry…,” she said, her slightly raspy voice betraying her earlier weeping. She cleared her throat, smiled at the chaplain, and tried again. “I’m very sorry, but my father and I were not close at all. I mainly came to take care of the details.”
“I understand Ms. Thornton,” replied the chaplain, “but there is still the issue of the deceased’s personal belongings.”
Andrea was uncomfortable with the thought of seeing any of her father’s belongings, and resolutely shook her head. “Listen, I really appreciate everything that the home has done, but I would be very grateful if you would just discard his things for me. I honestly don’t need to see anything.”
The chaplain stepped into the room, holding a small green duffle bag in his right hand. It looked like the typical bags she saw coming and going three times a week at the
After an uncomfortable pause, Andrea took the bag and held it in her hands for a moment before setting it on the chair where she had been sitting. Her intention was simply to leave it there once her visitor departed. She gave him a patient smile and said, “Thank you. I appreciate your concern.” Then she stood waiting for him to leave, but he wasn’t through yet.
“There is something else you should have,” said the chaplain as he reached in his inner suit coat pocket and retrieved an ordinary looking white envelope. He handed it to Andrea and then walked out of the room.
Andrea took a deep breath, letting it out with a slow sigh, her eyes closed in an attempt to restore order to her inner self. Looking at the envelope in her hand, she silently debated about opening it. Most likely, it was a bill or some document having to do with his time in prison or here at the nursing home. Another person in a similar situation might have hoped that it was the deed to some unknown fortune, but Andrea had no such thought. With some resignation, she moved the green duffle bag to the floor and sat down again to examine the contents of the envelope.
On the envelope was Andrea’s name, hand-written in what must have been her father’s writing. Inside was a single sheet of paper, a neatly typed letter followed by David Thornton’s signature:
“Dear Andrea,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am probably not too well myself or you wouldn’t be reading this. As you are likely now aware, I have been diagnosed with rapidly progressing Alzheimer’s disease and I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be around. Right now, though, I am OK and can think clearly enough to write. I know you are angry with me. You have every right to throw this away, but I ask you please to read on.
Andrea, I have been out of prison for four years now. I have been living in
I suspect you are wondering why I was released. Isn’t it interesting that my conviction all those years ago made so many newspaper headlines, yet my exoneration warranted none. Do you remember what I told you about that day? Do you remember what I told the judge?
I heard a gunshot. I saw your mother collapse. I ran to her. Someone approached us in the trees. He wore green and orange hunting clothes. When he saw us, he dropped his gun and ran. I couldn’t move. I was frozen with fear and shock. I wanted to chase the man but I couldn’t get to my feet. Then suddenly I was running to the store to call an ambulance. I don’t know why but I instinctively grabbed the hunter’s gun I never should have touched it. Do you remember me telling you this? I remember telling you and I remember that you believed me.
Andrea, the man who did this was arrested several years later for another crime. The accident had scarred him as severely as it did me, and he turned to drugs and alcohol as a result. This changed the course of his life, and he was eventually arrested for a crime related to his drug use. When he was arrested, he finally unburdened himself, confessing to the accident that took your mother’s life. I was released within a month.
Please believe me when I say that I loved your mother with all of my heart and I still do. I miss her every day that I breathe. Please believe me when I say that I loved you too, and that I desire to feel your love again. Andrea, I am so sorry that your life—that our life—didn’t turn out the way we might have hoped. And yet, I am forever grateful to God for the opportunity to have lived my life, to love your mother, and to watch from afar, as you have become the marvelous woman that you are.
Andrea, I hope that you will forgive me for allowing our family to disintegrate. I hope that you will forgive the man who killed your mother. I have forgiven him, and still struggle to forgive myself for losing you after losing her. I hope that you will live a very long and happy life. And I hope that I will see you again, and that you, your mother, and I will all be together some day.
With deepest love,
Daddy
David Thornton
The letter was signed by an unsteady hand. Andrea’s hands were no more steady; they shook as she struggled with the confusion of sudden illumination and fledgling hope.
In the few moments it took to read the letter, Andrea’s worldview had suddenly and irreversible been turned on its head. All that she had previously known to be true was now apparently false. If the letter were true, then indeed, years of anger and resentment had been for nothing.
Looking up from the page, she saw that the chaplain had returned and was standing in the doorway. He anticipated her question. “It’s all true.”
Too stunned to speak, her eyes pleaded with him for more information.
“It’s all true, every bit.” He watched for her response. “I became acquainted with your father when he first arrived here. When I learned his story, I encouraged him to write the letter while he was still able.”
Andrea looked down at the sheet of paper in her hands. She spoke softly, as if to herself, “Why didn’t he tell me sooner?”
“Your father was a proud man and felt that everything was his fault. He was ashamed of himself for not somehow protecting your mother, for not trying harder to prove his innocence, and for losing you.” He paused. “Your father loved you Andrea. He spoke about you all the time.”
Andrea stood up from her chair in a state of bewilderment that bordered on emotional breakdown. The chaplain approached her and took her hands. “I am sure this is confusing and difficult for you.” Then he placed a caring arm around her.
Whispering a quiet “thank you,” she had leaned her head for a moment on the chaplain’s shoulder, and allowed a few tears to escape.
Early evening was settling into the low rolling desert hills of southeastern
The unpaved washboard road made her car rattle and shake, even though she was only driving thirty miles per hour. Another mile, and the road began to curve down a slight slope, an old abandoned farmhouse was on the left. Another half mile and a small nondescript building appeared on the right. Two rusting trucks and a newer one sat in front of the building. This was the Bone Store. A few teenagers stood outside in the dusty parking lot. They watched the somewhat out-of-place white Sebring with its attractive driver pass by. Andrea noted the store with interest, but continued down the road, now at a decidedly slower pace.
She watched the Sebring’s odometer closely, until it marked exactly 1.4 miles beyond the store. As expected, an unremarkable single dirt lane appeared to her left, dropping down into a small shaded hollow. Andrea pulled the car off the road. Taking the green duffle bag with her, she walked thoughtfully down the dirt lane. The air was fresh with the smell of alfalfa, sagebrush, and wild grasses. As she approached the hollow, quaking aspens and western white pines added their aroma to the ensemble and she soon came to a small trickling stream.
Stepping over the stream and into the shade of the trees, Andrea found a patch of dry grass and sat down. Here was the place, twenty years earlier, that her family was torn apart. Here her mother left this world and her father left her life. Here an accident—a slight slip of the bindings that connect life to this world—changed everything. It was a sweet peaceful place, not the cold, empty void that she had always pictured in her mind. Andrea closed her eyes and began to pray. She prayed for her mother and father. She prayed for the hunter who’s unintended actions had changed so many lives. Her tears flowed freely as she asked forgiveness for her own anger. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the trees as a calm stillness overcame her. In this place she felt intimately close to both parents for the first time since childhood.
After a few moments, Andrea reached for the duffle bag, opened it, and removed a small metal-framed picture of a young bride and groom on their wedding day. The only other notable item in the bag was a simple wooden cross, sharpened at the bottom end. Andrea looked around for a rock, finding one in the little stream bed. With the rock, she pounded the cross into the soft soil, a few feet away from the water at the base of one of the aspen trees, keeping about an arm’s length of it standing above ground. She took the picture of her mother and father and lovingly attached it to the cross with a piece of wire.
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February 6, 2006,
I wrote this short story in an exercise in undirected writing. I wrote the first sentence with no idea of where the story would go, who the characters were, or what the background was. All I knew at the outset was that some woman was driving to Bone, Idaho. It was actually a lot of fun to learn the story as I wrote it.
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DALL·E image prompt: Artistic image of a long dirt road through a mountainous wilderness with a red truck on the road in the middle distance.